Sparks Are Cheap
by DragonDancer5150
Summary: A true friend doesn't give up easily.  A best friend doesn't give up, period.  G1 cartoon continuity, pre-canon.  Rated for harsh discipline and other abuse in future chapters.
1. Chp 1 Resolve

Author's Note – For "tf_speedwriting" on LJ. Prompt – "No Man's Land" This is part of my "Designation 24601" series, my version of Wheeljack's background. Please see my profile page for reading order.

Disclaimer – "Transformers" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Hasbro, Takara, and any other related owners/distributors/producers. I get no monetary benefit from this. My benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters.

"Sparks are Cheap"  
>by DragonDancer5150<p>

Chapter 1 – Resolve

Ratchet stood on the edge of the Badlands, gazing across its wasted surface. In the distance to his left, he could just make out the lights of Kaon. Somewhere close beyond that he knew lay Blaster City.

Blaster City. The place of his best friend's creation. The place to which the mech had never wanted to return.

The young medic had never really asked his best friend about his past, about where he came from. After they'd survived the destruction of their university and decided to join the Autobots, it just hadn't seemed important, though he knew that the younger engineer had once commented that he was originally a mining mech with nowhere to go now, that he couldn't go home. It hadn't been until two cycles ago – when Neutral bounty hunters had taken advantage of the confusion from a skirmish between the militant factions – that Ratchet had more than idly wondered _why_.

The head bounty hunter had called his friend 'Slipgear' . . . and Wheeljack had responded. In terror. He recognized the mech, one Crackdown, and had nearly gotten himself killed by Decepticon fire when he suddenly disregarded them in a desperate bid to scramble away from what he must have seen in that moment as the greater threat, swearing that he'd never be taken back to "Master".

Wheeljack – whose designation had originally been Slipgear – wasn't just a former mining mech who'd "left home" for something better. He was a runaway _slave_.

"Primus . . . " Ratchet rubbed a hand over his face, every micrometer of him aching with fatigue from the long trek here. When the two-sided fight had turned into a ruthless, three-sided free-for-all, the only side to come out _any_ kind of ahead had been the bounty hunters. The Decepticons had retreated after heavy losses, and of the Autobots only Ratchet had survived, and that only by playing dead under one of his fallen comrades. And of course Wheeljack, whom the Neutrals had taken alive. He was more valuable that way.

Ratchet's fists clenched in anger at that thought. He didn't really know anything about Blaster City, just that it was a filthy slum-nest of crime built over extensive cassiterite mines, most of which had run out of yield deca-vorns ago. The city might once have been prosperous, but now it was just a blight on the planet's surface and in its people's society, crouched like a forlorn thing on the edge of a no-mech's-land. Ratchet knew he shouldn't be going there alone, but his comm had been busted in the fight, and every astro-second was one closer to Ratchet never seeing his friend again. He refused to think that threshold had already been crossed.

There was one thing Ratchet had heard about the city that lay somewhere before him. It was the throwaway line every mech in society outside of the Badlands liked to toss around in that way that let them remind everyone that they were better. _'Sparks are cheap in Blaster City.'_

_Well_, Ratchet thought as his resolve gave him the strength to go on against his weariness, _there's one spark in Blaster City they'll pay _dearly_ for, for taking away from me._


	2. Chp 2 Dread

Author's Note – I don't normally continue a fic that was originally intended to be a stand-alone, but in the case of this one, I already felt there was more story to tell _and_ I wanted to tell it. I just didn't know if it was something anyone else wanted to read. Granted, reader wishes don't normally dictate what I write – I write for myself first and foremost, and if others enjoy it too, that's awesome – but in this case, the story had such a great response, both here and on LJ . . . well, who am I not to oblige? XD

Since the first chapter is really short – having originally been written for "tf_speedwriting" which only allows for 120 minutes per prompt/fic – all subsequent chapters will be as well, to keep a consistent format. Though a chaptered fic, this won't be written in the same style as my other chaptered fics: less detail, more of a "snapshot" feel. Still, I hope people enjoy it.

Disclaimer – "Transformers" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Hasbro, Takara, and any other related owners/distributors/producers. I get no monetary benefit from this. My benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters.

"Sparks are Cheap"  
>by DragonDancer5150<p>

Chapter 2 – Dread

_This isn't happenin'. _

The place stank of corrosion and dried cydraulic fluid. Wheeljack shifted and winced at the cold slither of chain against the back of his pelvis, a short length of links between the cuffs locked too tightly around his wrists. More chain connected manacles around his ankles. He hated chain, always had. Damned unnatural metal that moved with a limp, strutless fluidity nothing made of metal ever should. It made an ominous hissing, ringing noise every time he moved, grating on his simmering terror.

_This isn't happenin'. Please tell me this isn't happenin'!_

He'd been deposited in a small cage behind the superintendents' offices, aggravating a shoulder wound as he landed on his side. He'd been in this cage before. Twice before, after two failed escape attempts. Three times really had been the charm.

Or . . . not, since he was now three times in this little cage too. And soon enough, thrice to the whipping post. A sob escaped him at that thought.

_Please . . . please no, please no, _please_ no, PLEASE!_

He curled up where he lay, trembling hard. He knew what was coming. He'd survive it . . . but that was the problem – they'd make _sure_ he survived. Three solar cycles they'd make him endure, plus whatever fun his fellow slaves decided to have on him in that interim. He sobbed harder, curled up tighter as if by sheer force of fear and will – and the barricade of his knees against his chest – he could keep anyone from accessing his spark chamber.

He'd always known what would happen if he were ever recaptured and dragged back down here. He would have preferred to be killed – or even captured – by Decepticons. At least if _they_ captured him, he'd have a chance of seeing home again – not this forsaken pit but the home that he _wanted_ and that wanted him, where he had friends whom he loved and who cared about him. Here, he was nothing more than hard labor and a plaything. Here, there was nothing for him but constant exhaustion, degradation, and pain.

In the central cavern was where the "town" was located, the command and support center for the mining operation. Master's home was here, as well as the superintendents' homes and offices, the cafeteria, and the barracks of the slaves. And rising like a grand sentry from the middle of it all, a great stone column dominated a central plaza, a platform built around its base. He'd been brought in during the wee hours of the morning, and most of the lights had been dimmed or shut off. But even in the darkness as he was dragged past the terrible structure, he'd been able to make out the manacles bolted to its face, and the dark stains of old energon and cydraulic fluid splashed across it from past victims, himself included. Soon, the first alarm would sound, calling the workers to morning fuel, and then another to the start of the work day. The midday break alarm would sound, and the one to end the break, and then finally the one to end the shift. That was the alarm he dreaded now more than anything. Because then . . .

Then his personal hell would begin again in earnest.


	3. Chp 3 Frustration

Disclaimer – "Transformers" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Hasbro, Takara, and any other related owners/distributors/producers. I get no monetary benefit from this. My benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters.

"Sparks are Cheap"  
>by DragonDancer5150<p>

Chapter 3 – Frustration

The mech hit the wall hard, his body barely having a chance to slump before Ratchet was on top of him. "Where?" the medic demanded again. Ratchet remembered this mech, one of the bounty hunters who captured his friend. That had been over almost four solar cycles ago. Too long, far too damned long. This mech was the only link Ratchet had to his friend's whereabouts, and by Primus, he _would_ _talk_.

"What the frag, mech?" The other's optics were narrow. "Doncha think you're overreactin'? Little rockie's nothin' but a runaway. Smelt, even his creator's in Turnback's employ. The mech was _paid ta build_ him. If _that_ don't mean he belongs ta that rich slagger, I don't know what does."

"This is a _mech_ we're talking about," Ratchet snarled, "not a piece of furniture!"

"Around here, same diff!" the bounty hunter retorted. "Welcome ta Blaster City, outsider. 'Round here, if ya don't got money or the ball bearings t'force a little respect outta people, you're _someone's_ property, one way'r another. Your buddy just happens ta be one'a those that it's literal _an' legal_. And if you're not careful, lemme point out that you're two kliks from joinin' him."

Something in the way the mech said it made Ratchet pause. "What do you mean?"

The mech gave him a nasty grin and gestured to one side with his head. Ratchet spared a glance over his shoulder at the corner of the alley's mouth, indirectly "looking" down the street. "You heard alla that racket down there, right? Them's the slave markets. We don't bother with prison 'round here, outsider. You get caught an' convicted, we kill ya or we put ya ta good use. An' if they can't sell ya in a vorn or ya get returned twice for bad behavior . . . we kill ya. 'Course, if ya got money ta spare an' work ta be done, but ya don't feel like fraggin' with unruly criminals, then ya just pay someone ta create labor special-made for ya. They're exactly what ya wanted, they don't give ya no trouble, an' ya don't gotta worry about trackin' sentences an' when ya gotta let someone go for time served. Works for everyone."

"Except the poor spark condemned to a life of slavery with no hope of seeing any end to it!"

The mech shrugged. "What spark? Like ya said, they're just furniture. They're just a drone, only got a little more sense to 'em. Usually."

Ratchet couldn't catch himself fast enough before his fist was smashing across the bounty hunter's face, crushing a few peripheral plates, breaking a service line in the jaw joint, and splashing his hand with energon as the mech lost consciousness from the viciousness of the blow.

_You're two kliks from joinin' him._

Ratchet stood up and hurried out of the alley. He intended to be long gone before the bounty hunter could wake up and come after him.

At least now he had a name. Turnback. It was more than he'd had arriving in this dirty, dangerous, hellish city.


End file.
